It's Alright
by jeviennis
Summary: Sometimes, the Doctor makes mistakes.


**A/N **The Munich flight I refer to is the 1958 disaster that killed seven members of the Manchester United football team as it tried to take off.

Sometimes, the Doctor is wrong. It's few and far between, and everyone knows that there's always a good reason behind it, but the point still stands. He gets things wrong. And as time goes by and he makes more and more mistakes, the Doctor starts to lose faith in himself. And that's the worst thing that could ever happen, because when the Doctor doesn't believe he's right, no one does.

It starts off slowly, barely noticeable, with minuscule screw ups that could be put down to timing, tricks of the light, his mind messing with him. When he aims for New York and ends up in Yorkshire, that's a mistake. When he calls Amy by Rose's name once, by accident, because her hair looked blonde under the blue sun of Delta 3.1, that's a mistake. But when he mixes up his dates and puts Rory on the Munich flight in 1958, that's the biggest mistake of all.

When Amy finds out, she doesn't cry. She's too empty for that. Instead, she just sits and waits, like Rory did. The Doctor can only stare at her, tears glazing his face, not knowing what to do. He decides for a tender hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs it off without so much as a glance at him, and that's when the Doctor knows that he's lost Amy for good.

The only time they communicate is the next day, when Amy asks to go home. He doesn't ask her to stay because he doesn't think she could dignify him with a response. She doesn't. She gathers her bags and takes Rory's clothes back into her house that is far too large, not looking back once. When the Doctor returns to his old girl, he feels more alone than ever. Sure, he's been on his own in his big blue box, but never has he felt like even the TARDIS had left him, too ashamed to hum or whir quietly for him. He's even disappointed her, and that's what scares him the most.

It's always been a complex for him, he thinks sadly. Impress and please, that's all he ever wants to do, because he knows that the moment he disappoints someone, the guilt and the regret that he tries so hard to keep at bay will surge forward like a tsunami. But instead of having Amy there to comfort him, to hold his hand just tight enough and tell him that everything's okay in that oh-so-human way, he sits alone in the darkened control room with Rory's body warmer on the seat next to him.

He wants to go back, put his bloody time machine to good use and get Rory out of there, but he knows he can't. Rory's name was already on the list of the dead that appeared in the magazine the week after, he was part of events. And even the Doctor, no matter how hard he wishes it weren't true, knows that there's no messing in established events. He tried explaining that to Amy, but she just gazed blankly at the motor rising and falling in the centre of the room, and he knew it was hopeless. He couldn't make this up to her. He'd feel bad if he could. He shouldn't have to.

The next week, after a few gratuitous walks on planets that just aren't any fun anymore, the Doctor decides to leave a note at Amy's house. He ponders what to say, doesn't even know if there are any words for what he wants to say, so he keeps short.

_I'm sorry._

He doesn't leave his name. He doesn't have to. Amy knows it's from him.

The next time he visits her house is a year later, and not much has changed. Amy has a job in the local corner shop, things seem like they might be looking up for her. She smiles at the locals, makes pleasantries with the customers, plasters a grin on her face for her family, but the Doctor knows it's not true. He knows her too well for that. So, again, he leaves her a note, in the same handwriting with the same unnecessary curl on the 'y', just so she knows he hasn't left her.

_I hope you're okay._

He knows she's not. So does she. But it brings the tiniest of smiles to her face, a half-hearted one, instantly replaced by a churning feeling in her stomach, and the Doctor sees it, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, even if she can't ever properly forgive him, she can understand how sorry he is, how everyday he looks at Rory's body warmer that he still hasn't moved from the seat and gets a jolt of pain so sharp that the main room spins and his knees buckle slightly.

In time, the Doctor meets a young girl, not far from Amy's age, and shows her the universe. It feels nice to be able to show someone the ropes again, but he can't help feeling a little false as he does it. She's a nice girl - smart, kind, funny – but there's still something missing, something he grew accustomed to that he never realised he adored so much. Love. He misses when Amy and Rory would come downstairs in the morning and share a little kiss before tasting morning breath and wincing slightly. He misses when he would hear a shriek and a laugh and know that the couple had found the swimming pool again. He misses the happiness. And this new girl doesn't see that. She sees the wonder and the magnitude, yes, but not the sheer unadulterated bliss that comes with it, so the Doctor starts to question if he's losing his touch, if he isn't so good at picking them anymore. She leaves not long after, and the Doctor goes back to see her once or twice, normally en route to Amy's.

She's older now, 27, and she's got another boyfriend. He buys her flowers and the sex is good, but she can't shake the feeling that he's just not Rory. And so, like the man from the chemist and the lorry driver from Essex, she breaks it off for no good reason and leaves them standing, calling after her. She knows she's being a bitch, but she can't help it. The Doctor sees that, knows that she's still hurting, knows that every time she dumps a man it cuts her up a little more inside, so he leaves her one more note.

_Don't hate yourself for it. _

God knows he's got enough self-hate to go around.

When Amy sees it, she knows he's right, but she just doesn't know what to do anymore. All Amy knows is that there is only one place she wants to be, needs to be, despite how much she wants to hate it. So the next time she catches the blue of the TARDIS out the corner of her eye, she turns to face it and knocks slowly on the wood. Inside, the Doctor's breath catches. He'd know that knock anywhere, even after all these years.

As he opens the door, there's a silence and a pause as they stare at each other. Then wordlessly, Amy reaches out her arms and the Doctor just melts into her, because he needs it, he needs the reassurance and he needs to know that there might be a tiny part of Amy that forgives him for what they both know he did. As he clings onto her with what seems like pure desperation, she leans down and whispers the two words that they both know are a bit of a lie, but could be the start of something for the two of them.

_It's alright._


End file.
